The Second Floor

“We need to talk.”

 

White bay windows overlook the block.

We always closed the blinds up here.

Keeps the neighbors from shock.

Not to mention the second floor is separate,

almost quiet, a new dimension.

A hole and a staircase lead back down.

Falling down,

down those, would be easier than facing him

We sit on the couch. My legs are shaking.

 

“Sure baby, what’s up?”

 

A hand on my leg and he leans in.

I resist.

I used to live for moments like these.

Us alone and the need to touch, to please.

His arms held so much love,

so much pain, understanding.

I was that too,

for the dumbest of reasons,

for times when he should have been that for me,

but I seceded myself for his needs.

 

But, it's a give and take, right?

 

I resist on the fact that those arms feel foreign now.

Like hearing a women yell at her spouse

in a language I do not know.

It's a familiar scene,

but the feelings are different.

I stand pacing.

 

“Whatever it is you can tell me.”

 

He holds my arms and looks at my face with a soft smile.

Lies, lies, I keep falling for lies,

that smile is vile.

I’m mourning a him,

a him I preferred in the past.

My nose congests, my chest is heavy,

trying hard to not tremble as I speak.

 

“Promise me something.”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

He’s emotional. Sometimes more than me.

He feels intensely. Explodes intensely too.

It scared me when he yelled.

His voice deeper, sharper,

something not expected,

and yet never at me.

Usually for our ability to see each other.

At my parents,

his parents,

my siblings, his,

at those around me,

but never at me.

But every time he did, even when it wasn’t at me.

My heart felt it. My heart felt it.

He took for granted,

advantage of the love

I could give.

How could he

use his death

against me?

 

“Ok.”

 

He said he wouldn't be mad.

But, those are decided.

But it would ever happen, in his eyes.

 

“I… I don’t think… I love you the same way. I love you.

I care for you. I mean, fuck.”

 

FUCK!

 

What the hell am I doing?

Sugar

Oh sweet sugar

Why do I sugarcoat this for him,

 

“How could I not. I’ve known you for 9 months.

But something changed.”

 

No shit,

words and words

each with a hit.

Your sweet nothing but lies

stabbing my eyes,

to not see the real you.

 

“I still want you in my life, you have a part of me and

I have that little part of you too. And you know it”

 

Why is he so

selfish,

selfish,

selfish.

 

He’s crying,

voice cracking,

so soft as he tries to speak.

Crocodile tears.

 

I’m crying too,

loud hiccups of pain,

I’m weak

I try to refrain.

 

And as we sit there,

in terror

my eyes wander

to the sweater

I stole months ago, folded neatly.

No longer wrinkled from wear.

Washed, a dark tone

no longer smelling

of his musky Japanese cologne

It's sitting on the maple table.

Filled with fingerprints

of past games, wins, kisses, fights, and pushes.

It contained so much,

it's fitting how it ends with it in the room.

 

It didn't go out how I thought,

a nice neat package was a false thought,

but it happened.

 

This toxic connection is severed

and now I live knowing

I did what I had to do to be better

 

-A.A

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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